Returning To Neverland
by Mildred Graves
Summary: Teenlock Neverland AU. Sherlock Holmes is the boy who never grew up. John Watson is his friend who has long since forgotten his time in Neverland. When they are reunited fireworks (literal and otherwise) will fly.
1. Harriet's Story

_A/N: _The idea for this story would not (I repeat WOULD NOT) leave me alone. I was talking to my sister about how Peter Pan (despite being the main protagonist of Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie) is a pretty awful dude, and she said "Sort of like Sherlock Holmes." And although I disagree that Sherlock is as bad as Peter, it did plant the seed of this story in my head. (Thanks a ton Sis, as if I didn't have enough stories locked up there as it is.)

So, here it is in all of it's fantastical AU glory: Neverlock, the Sherlock and Peter Pan franchises combined. Updating will most likely be slow as I'm working on several other multi-chapter fics right now. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

God bless and a warm handshake in thought,

~Millie

Disclaimer: Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, J.m. Barrie owns the places, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss own any modern day tidbits. Basically, all I own is the blender used to mix all these things up.

...

* * *

"Tell us a story, Aunt Harry."

Harriet Watson grinned at the three restless children in front of her. Each lay in their own respective bed, but upon hearing Jean (the oldest of the three) suggest what so alluded them in their state of presque vu they all joined her on her bed and stared bright-eyed at Harry.

"Please." Adrian, the youngest, begged.

Dennis, the middle child, took a more strategic approach. "We won't tell Mother or Father."

Harry couldn't help but laugh. The kids should've known by now that she was a sucker for little kids. "What story would you like to hear?" She asked in the soft voice she reserved only for her small charges. Normally she was a blustering and ridiculing mess (admittedly odd traits for a nanny) but she had a soft spot for children. It was a shame she never had any of her own.

"The one you told us yesterday about the pirates!" Adrian cried.

Dennis begged to differ. "No way! Tell us something new."

"A mystery." Jean interjected.

"That's boring." Adrian complained. "Something with adventure."

"But it has to be romantic."

"And interesting."

Harry chuckled, pulling up a chair to the foot of the bed. "Alright, alright. Cool it." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "Have I ever told you the story of Sherlock Holmes?"

"No." They said in unison.

"Well," Harry said, leaning forward while the children did the same with wide eyes. "You all are in for a treat."

She made herself comfortable in her chair. "It's definitely my favorite story by far. It has mystery and adventure and it's certainly a romantic tale."

"Pirates?" Adrian inquired eagerly.

"Tons of pirates." Harry promised.

"What's it about?" Jean wanted to make sure that this was a proper story.

Harry smiled. "It's about a boy named Sherlock Holmes who would never _ever_ grow up."

"Why wouldn't he want to grow up?"

"He thought grown-ups were _boring_." Harry rolled her eyes, making the children laugh. "But it's not just about him; it's about another boy named John Watson who ran away with Sherlock. What's more romantic than that? Two boys running away from the life they once knew for the sake of adventure and excitement?"

Jean nodded thoughtfully in agreement. "Where did they run away to?"

"Neverland, of course." Harry said, grinning mischievously. The kids all smiled in understanding: not a child alive hasn't heard the rumor of the island called Neverland.

"So what happens?"

"Well," Harry began, glancing out the window at the dark sky speckled by stars beyond. "It all started like any good story . . . with a sword fight."

* * *

Sherlock ducked under the impending slice of the blade and lunged backwards; unarmed.

"Come now, Jefferson, aren't you growing a bit tired of this game." Sherlock taunted, almost dancing out of his attackers reach. "I know I am."

The man only snarled and leapt forward, slashing wildly with his sword. "I'm going to skin you alive, Holmes."

"Dull." Sherlock said, jumping above the blade, avoiding it once more. On second thought he added, "And doubtful."

The two of them were in one of many caves on the Neverland Island. Jefferson was bigger, stronger, and had been armed but Sherlock was smarter. He'd long ago memorized the extensive and elaborate pathways of the caves in his homeland.

He smirked provocatively at his attacker, then turned tail and took off running deeper into the dark tunnel.

"Face me like a man!" Jefferson shouted, following Sherlock.

He was standing right ahead arms crossed, chuckling humorlessly. "Well that's the point." He said as Jefferson charged blindly forward. By the time Jefferson realized that Holmes' feet weren't touching the floor and that the floor wasn't truly a floor but a placid body of water it was too late to backpedal.

"I'm not." Sherlock said coldly as Jefferson was submerged in the frigid water below him. Being able to fly had its advantages.

He broke the surface with a shout. "HOLMES!"

"Do keep thrashing, it makes an easier task for the fish to find you."

He trembled for the near glacial water surrounding him. "Fish?"

"Carnivorous fish. They hunt in packs and can smell human flesh from over two miles away and judging from the fact that you're just five feet above their nest, they'll be arriving soon." He hovered just out of Jefferson's reach.

The man swore loudly and continued to flounder about. "Help me. Oh God please, help!"

But Sherlock wasn't listening, he flew to the water's edge and then walked back into the passage through which he came. Jefferson's shrieks echoed against the walls long after his body had been submerged.

* * *

"Well, did you find him?" Greg Lestrade asked when Sherlock approached his team's make-shift camp. The bounty hunters were about as close to an authority as the Neverland had; they were called on by a variety of people (from pirates to mermaids) to help right wrongs and achieve justice etcetera, etcetera . . . for the right price, of course. However, the whole of them, in Sherlock's opinion, were bumbling fools who often had to consult the boy.

"Yes." He drawled, walking straight past Lestrade and towards Sally Donovan.

"Then where is he?" Greg said in exasperation, removing his hat and running a hand through his hair.

"Pipe." He commanded.

Donovan rolled her eyes. "Freak." She muttered, but handed the boy the pipe and match all the same.

He lit the pipe and took several deep lung fulls of the smoke, blowing each breath out slowly. Then he said with a grimace, "This is absolutely horrid. You should see what people smoke in London these days with all those lovely chemicals."

"Sherlock."

"Honestly, the least you could do for me now that I've solved your damn case is let me have a halfway decent smoke."

"Sherlock." More persistent this time.

"And for God's sake next time you tell me you have an interesting case for me: _actually_ _have an interesting case_."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade finally shouted.

"What?" The boy looked scandalized.

"Tell us what happened with the case." He said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock made an impatient noise. "If you had half a brain you would be able to tell for yourself what had happened by just looking at me."

"Enlighten me." Lestrade said, rubbing his forehead.

"If I must." Sherlock drawled indignantly. "Well, for starters, there are blond hairs on my shirt." And yes, there they were on his white button down; blond hairs. "The only suspect with blond hair had been Quince Jefferson, thus he was the man I was chasing and therefore the thief of your client's fortune. My trousers are wet which means I was around water, but not the ocean or lagoon because of the type of moss on my shoes. Cave river it is, then. Which one? Well, the aforementioned moss on my shoes is mostly found in caves west of the lagoon, and if it contains a river than that narrows it down to one particular cave: Eaux Cavern."

"Oh for God's sake." Anderson, another member of the team, murmured to Donovan. "He's just making this stuff up."

Lestrade shot them a look and said. "Alright, then. But where is Jefferson now? And where's the treasure?"

"Jefferson has been, ah . . . taken care of." Sherlock waved his hand as if to banish the thought, much to Lestrade's horror. "As for the treasure."

He detached the burlap sack from one of his trouser's belt loops. "Nicked it off Jefferson during the fight." He threw it to Lestrade.

Greg opened it to find more than three dozen rubies glinting up at him in the firelight of their camp. "I suggest you take a few for yourself and your team as your employer isn't intending to pay you." Sherlock advised.

"How did you- oh, never mind." Lestrade tucked the rubies into his bag. Sherlock had finished his smoke and slipped his pipe into his pocket. "So this man wasn't one of Moriarty's, then?"

Sherlock visibly tensed at the mention of the name. "Doubtful. He was just an idiotic, greedy man acting on his own resolve."

There was an awkward pause where no one said anything and Sherlock just stood there.

"Are you planning on staying with us for supper, Sherlock?"

His team's heads all snapped to Lestrade, eyes wide with horror. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Ah, no. Must get back to the hideout, need to get up early tomorrow so I can search for my coat. I must've lost it somewhere in the lagoon during the chase." He quickly strode away.

Lestrade pulled something from his bag, shot a glare at his team and followed. "Sherlock!" He called.

Sherlock turned to face him; the camp fire was just a speck now from their view. "Yes?"

"Almost forgot. We pulled this out of the lagoon earlier, looks like you won't have to go fishing after all." He handed him his now dry great coat.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, eyebrows raised in surprise. He slipped it on. "Well, I'll be off."

"Wait, Sherlock." Lestrade began and soon found he had no idea what exactly he wanted to say when Sherlock turned his calculating blue eyes on him again.

Sherlock had been fourteen when he came to Neverland. This was highly unusual not only because people rarely found Neverland but because the only people who did were scarcely more than toddlers. Lestrade himself had been born and raised here; he'd been twenty-eight when Sherlock had arrived. Now he was forty and Sherlock still had the same features with the exception of a few scars. Same gangly, boney form, same icy almost reptilian eyes, same curly black hair, same high cheekbones and so on.

Usually Sherlock gave off the aura of being much older than he actually was but suddenly under the darkening sky, he seemed to radiate a sort of restless exhaustion. Lestrade finally found his voice. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock stared at him like he was crazy. "Of course. Honestly, you're wasting my time. . . ." He began to ascend but Lestrade grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

"I'm serious Sherlock, you've just seemed a bit out of it lately." Lestrade insisted.

Sherlock sighed in defeat. "It's just these cases, Lestrade. Everything has just been so dull lately, even the cases I would usually find riveting are hopelessly boring."

Lestrade paused, weighing his words carefully to put his idea in the best lighting as possible. "Have you ever considered getting an assistant?"

"What good would having a bumbling fool of an accomplice do me?"

"Look, Sherlock." Lestrade decided the best way to do this was blatantly, or else they would be standing here all night. "I have never seen you as happy as you were when you had that little boy in tow a few years ago."

"John." The way Sherlock said his name, even when in disbelief, made Lestrade smile a bit. The most affection he had ever seen shown by Sherlock was towards the little seven year old, John Watson. "I hardly think–"

Lestrade cut him off. "Well, I do. The kid loved Neverland and you loved having him here, admit it. I don't see why you shouldn't invite him back."

"I deal with murder on a daily basis: how is that a suitable environment for a child?" _Alright, now he's just grasping at straws,_ Lestrade thought. Since when did Sherlock care about the inhumanity implied by a murdered body?

Instead of saying this, he decided to play a different card. "You might forget sometimes, you know not ageing at all and everything, but most of us do get older." He figured to his own silver hair. "John is probably well into adolescence by now."

"That just makes it worse; he probably doesn't even remember me." Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade chuckled. "Sherlock Holmes, how could anybody forget you?"

After that Sherlock agreed grudgingly to think about it and bid Lestrade a good night. He took off flying into the night sky, and Greg soon lost sight of him for his black coat made him one with his inky background.

For a while Lestrade just stood there silently imagining what John's return to Neverland might entail.

* * *

As Sherlock flew over the extensive and shadowy forest that coated Neverland he couldn't help ponder what Lestrade had said. The temptation of going to see John again was overwhelming, but he had become accustomed to working alone after all.

He tightened his coat as a chilly north wind blew his way. He wondered where John Watson was right now.

* * *

The gun shot was deafening, the pain in his shoulder was sudden and blinding. The muddy street suddenly pressing against his face. The whole of his being was in agony. He was shrieking, his only condolence was that it would soon all be over . . . .

John Watson woke up with a start in his bed. He gasped for air and clenched his eyes shut while willing for his heart to stop palpitating. The nightmares lingered with him still, years after the incident. The therapist his father was making him see was absolute rubbish, he knew that, his sister knew that, even the therapist knew that. Everyone except his dad, but if it John hated one thing more than those dreaded sessions with Ella, it was making his dad worry.

Even now with tears in his eyes, John couldn't help but bitterly chuckle at Ella's latest idea to save John from the loony bin.

"Write down what happens to you in your day to day life." She had said. "It will help you become more accustomed and comfortable with it."

What was he to write? Wake up, eat, walk to school, sit in school, walk home, eat, sleep, repeat, and work on weekends? John couldn't see what that would do but make him depressed.

So he had replied to her suggestion as honestly as he could. "Nothing happens to me."

Little did he know that Sherlock Holmes (and the adventure of a life time) was waiting in the wings.


	2. Decisions, Discoveries, and Destinations

The article was entitled _"Believe In Sherlock Holmes"_ and it was written by a girl named Molly Hooper.

Mycroft Holmes leaned forward and frowned at his laptop. In disbelief he re-read the article for the fourth time. It was his monthly indulgence: typing his younger brother's name into his search engine. The usual results were from several years ago each reading generally the same thing, "Fourteen Year Old Boy Missing", "Sherlock Holmes: The Suspected Kidnapping", "Young Man Missing; Police Baffled". All old news from roughly twelve years ago.

Mycroft had been twenty-one, well out of uni and ready to start a new and very successful career, when Sherlock had gone missing. He hadn't been close with his brother, not since they were children, but the effects of his brother's kidnapping was shocking.

It had been tedious at first.

His brother was rebellious. Phone calls from school headmasters and their parents were expected. Sherlock running away was just yet another act in a long line of immature feats.

A week passed. Police were perplexed and even he was at a loss for a single clue . . . .

Fury had struck him.

Unadulterated rage; the kind only Sherlock could ignite in him. There had been times before (slit wrists and used needles that kept Mycroft awake at night and aged him by years) when that absolute ferocity had been directed at Sherlock himself. This was different: he was going to kill whoever had stolen Sherlock away from him.

But months went by. A year. Two years. Hope dwindled. Something broke inside Mycroft that could never be fixed.

His mother had been devastated; she stopped eating, sometimes even refused talk. She was as sharp as her sons, perhaps even more so, but grief destroyed her. She would stare at walls for hours on end.

Their father had been . . . less than distressed . . . relieved, even. The cruel man, unworthy of his kind wife, had all but detached himself from any inconvenient human emotion. Love, namely.

He tolerated his wife for the first few months but eventually snapped and hollered at her for moping over such an unworthy cause.

When she didn't react, he had hit her.

A maid had seen the abuse and called Mycroft on his private number.

Benjamin Holmes died one week later as result of an _unfortunate_ hit and run.

Mycroft could not bring himself to regret these actions. Putting his job on the line for the sake of finding his brother, arranging his own father's death, putting constant surveillance on his mother: they were all acts of love. Caring was not an advantage, he knew this from experience. Mycroft's co-workers might call him cold, heartless even, but that was because they didn't truly know him. No one did, no one ever had.

So, eventually his mother passed on and Mycroft achieved the title of the only living Holmes at age thirty-three. And now, this . . . this adolescent girl had written a single and easily overlookable article on the internet and his reality was suddenly crumbling around him.

"Dear God." He murmured re-reading the particularly jarring line: _"It's like he can turn his charm on and off like a switch, sometimes he's prince charming and others he's quite an arrogant – not to mention petulant – child."_ That was his brother, all right.

But the girl was clearly psychotic claiming that the _oh-so-wonderful_ Sherlock Holmes not only was still fourteen when he should really twenty-six but could fly and lived on an impossible island where he solved crimes concerning pirates, thieves, fairies, bounty hunters, and all other sorts of nonsense.

Mycroft looked at the date of publication and found that it was posted just today. He pretended not to notice the way his heart raced when he read his brother's name followed by a present tense word when he had long ago started to refer to his brother in terms of "was" and "used to be". Death was the swift switch between present and past tense. Somehow Molly Hooper (a girl he planned to now investigate with much vigor) had given him hope with merely a few words.

* * *

Molly Hooper did not believe many people would read her article.

She was re-reading it for the fourth time that night, looking for any errors she could have missed. After posting "Believe In Sherlock Holmes" she had tested out what words when typed into the search engine would bring up her story. So far it was only the title, Sherlock Holmes, Neverland, or Molly Hooper that could make her article appear on the first five pages.

Perfect.

It wasn't as though anyone was going to search her name. She had friends, of course, but none that would actually Google her. So the only people who would see the story was people who knew something about the mysterious boy who defied reality and (if she was honest) was perhaps the single most attractive man she had ever laid eyes on.

Molly was a sixteen year old girl and she was about to change the lives of two men named Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock came to his decision through this way:

While lying on his bed (could one call the straw mattress a bed?) he admitted to himself that he did want John back. It was a gradual decision akin to the sensation of falling asleep; slow and hesitant, and then sudden and all at once. He refused to acknowledge that Lestrade was right; that he was lonely and self destructive. Choosing not to think too much into the reasoning behind his decision to invite John back into his life, he decided that it was simply his need for an accomplice to do things unworthy of his attention (note-taking, civilian control, etcetera.)

So with his mind made, there were only the simple steps of a.) Getting to London and b.) Convincing John to come with him.

Step a.) was merely tedious but he would bear through the long trip, he had done it before, after all. Step b.) hardly seemed a challenge either; John had been more than willing to run away with him last time. But then again, the way their last adventure had ended perhaps John wouldn't be quite so keen . . . .

"But that was ages ago! Why would he still be upset about that?" He stood up abruptly.

He was pacing now. "I'll leave for London tomorrow morning." He muttered to himself. And then he stopped and looked in exasperation at his human skull which rested elegantly on the mantle. "What the hell am I saying? Why wait?"

The skull did not respond.

Sherlock resumed pacing. "I mean, why force John to suffer another whole night of boring ordinary life?"

Again Yorik (for lack of a better name) held his vigilant silence.

"Exactly." Sherlock responded as though the skull had replied. He turned toward it with a look of fierce determination. "I'll leave tonight."

He smirked and called to the skull, "Don't wait up!" as he slipped on his great coat and clambered out of his home and into open air, feeling truly alive for the first time in months.

He sprinted through the forest knowing from experience that it was damn near impossible to fly out of the thick wall of branches and trees that acted as a ceiling to the extensive Neverland woods.

Anderson whiny tone was unmistakable. "Where the hell is he going?"

Sherlock attempted to simply run right by the group of bounty hunters but strong hands grabbed his shoulders. "Sherlock! For God's sake, what are you doing?!" It was Lestrade.

"I'm off to go find my assistant." And he tore out of his grasp.

"What, you mean John?" Greg called after him. Sherlock didn't respond. He ran toward the edge of the forest knowing what awaited him there. An opening between from the thicket and trees revealed the gorgeous star spangled night sky, running closer, Sherlock could see where the ground ended and gave way to the perilous drop down to the mermaid's lagoon.

He leapt from the cliff, throwing his arms out wide and grinning madly.

Sherlock let himself free fall for a few seconds, pulling up just before hitting the water. He flew over the dark water letting his fingers graze it with delicate intricate motions. Mermaids saw him and shouted cruel things at him, as he had never been a friend of their kind.

"Freak!" One cried and tried to splash him. He dived out of the way easily and chuckled at their poor aim.

He rose above them and smirked. "Off to London." He murmured to himself. He chose not to think too much into the reasoning behind his happiness, because he knew from experience not to deduce contentment if one wishes to remain that way, he flew fast with renewed vigor led by the directional light of a full moon.

* * *

He woke up at 5:12 AM and groaned in helpless frustration. Another nightmare. Though growing infrequent, it seemed as though upon late they were returning with full force. John wiped the tears from his face and sat up. Eventually he managed to even his breathing and steady his heart rate. He closed his eyes and concentrated on maintaining regularity with the skilled patience of an experienced parasomniac.

Three years. Three years he had managed without a therapist, damn it. John had been kidnapped when he was seven or that was what they told him, anyway. All he remembered was the feeling of excitement and adrenaline, his sister screaming, unearthly eyes, and dread followed by pain like he had never experienced.

The whole event was fuzzy. What the police, his father, and his sister had all told him was that he had been stolen from his bedroom in the dead of night and a week later showed up on the streets with a bullet wound in his shoulder and scars covering his chest.

Back then his sister, Harry, had shared a room with him. She had witnessed the kidnapping and, Jesus, she had been screwed up ever since. Even after he had been found Harry would still burst out screaming and crying at odd moments and would remain silent for hours on end at times. She had needed to see more therapists than John himself: screaming mad things about a flying boy taking her brother from their room. Perhaps that was better than John, though, who stopped talking for three months after the incident.

John remembered, once he had been discharged from the hospital, that Harry would crawl into his bed at night and whisper questions to him.

"Do you remember what he looked like?" Her voice shook as well as her hands which grasped his so desperately.

"No." John would tell her, it was the only time he spoke. There was something between them, like there often is when two people experience a traumatic incident together, an unspoken bond that made them trust each other. "His eyes were pretty. I remember that."

"I remember a bit." She admitted but never elaborated. John never asked.

He started to see therapists, each with their own unique strategy of making him crack. Dear Lord, John dreaded those sessions. But his father was relentless in his unconditional worry so as long as John would wake up screaming from nightmares or begin to cry at the sight of birds flying he would continue to see a specialist.

At age ten he finally stopped. No more nightmares, no more tears, no more screaming. It was gradual but yes, finally his father was satisfied with his state of mind.

And for three years he had remained satisfied. His sister, who was four years his senior, was eighteen when it happened; just starting at uni and well into discovering her own methods of coping when the nightmares became too much. She had spent nearly all her pocket money on the cabby fare to get to the hospital when it happened.

He was walking in the park with some of his mates; fourteen at the time. This time he remembered the incident more vividly.

They were all laughing and talking at first. ". . . and so the freak comes up to me, right? And I say . . . ." Robert was telling them. The word _freak_ repeated itself in John's mind like an echo, the grin that previously held strong there, slipped from his face.

He glanced up; it looked like a storm was coming . . . gray clouds bogging up a turquoise sky . . . like something from a dream long ago . . . .

Vaguely he realized he had stopped walking. The guys were noticing, glancing around with amused looks on their faces as they though he was joking.

"John, you wanker, quit acting like an idiot." One of them shouted. _Quit acting like an idiot_, he'd heard that so many times before, a sickening, over powering sensation of déjà vu struck him hard.

Looking up again he saw a flock of birds take wing overhead, launching themselves out of a tree and into open air. Nostalgia filled him, _I wish could do that again,_ he thought. And then_, Why did I think that?_

Dimly he was aware that his knees were buckling. The ground hit him hard, but it felt distant. "John! What the hell?!" His friends were shouting, but it was muffled to his ears. "Jesus Christ! Call 999!"

His heart was pounding painfully, so hard he couldn't catch his breath. He was saying something; he could feel his mouth moving. His friends were in his face shouting, but his vision was tunneling . . . soon he would be consumed by darkness . . . .

Waking up in a hospital is alarming at the best of times. Knowing that this was the place where nine years ago your mother had died of leukemia and just seven years ago that this was where you had been treated as result of being shot . . . well, alarming is only the half of it.

John numbly answered the doctors' few questions and listened as he was told in turn that he had suffered from a severe flash back induced panic attack.

"Your friends said that you kept saying 'Sherlock' right before you lost consciousness. Does that name mean anything to you?" The doctor frowned in concern.

John shook his head slowly. "No."

His sister, however, clearly had. Upon being questioned, her face had paled significantly and she seemed to be at a loss for words before murmuring, "No, never heard before."

Back to therapy, then.

His new therapist, Ella Thompson, would not budge on her decision to deem John as an untrusting, secretive, confused child. Perhaps he was.

John finally got up and winced when his knees popped. _I _feel_ like a tired, old man_, John thought cynically as he went to get dressed, knowing that sleep was out of the question now. He slipped on jeans, a tee, and a blue cable knit jumper. Upon noticing, he frowned at his closed window and then groaned softly. "Damn it, Harry."

His sister was staying for the weekend which meant a weekend of locked doors and windows. To an inexperienced eye, Harry had gotten over her PTSD from the whole kidnapping incident. But there were tell tale signs like her compulsive door/window locking, waking up early from nightmares, and easily agitated character that told John that he wasn't the only one who needed a therapist.

But Harry was nineteen and had the legal right to avoid therapy. That did not prevent her, however, from being brought in to Ella whenever she came to stay for what Ella liked to call "family sessions".

As John re-opened his window a crack (a habit he had inherited from his late mother) he recalled yesterday night's therapy session with Harry.

"What the bloody hell do you mean John can't open up to anyone? He bloody well can open up to me!" Harry quickly was at Ella's throat with accusations. John just sat there, clutching the bridge of his nose, as his sister worked herself into a frenzy.

Ella was patient; you had to give her that. "Don't take it personally, Harriet. It's not your fault, and it's not John's fault either-"

Harry raised her eyebrows critically, putting her hands on her hips. "I didn't say it was my fault."

"No, it's just natural for family members to assume-"

"Assume that it's their fault that their brother was kidnapped and has been screwed up ever since?" Harry asked sarcastically. "'Cause I'm pretty certain that's the kidnappers fault, yeah?"

Ella leaned forward. "Harriet, your brother is not 'screwed up'."

"Oh yes, he bloody well is!" Harry was on the edge of her seat.

"Jesus Christ." John muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Harriet-" Ella began.

But Harry wouldn't hear it. "What the hell do you call it, then? He's not had a decent night of sleep in a year, he doesn't talk to any of his friends anymore, and he has a bloody panic attack every other week!" She figured wildly to John. "Have you even talked to this boy? He's a freaking mess!"

"I can see you're concerned about your brother, but-"

"Damn right I'm concerned about him! I'd be concerned for anybody who had such a rubbish therapist." Harry snorted.

"Harriet, I'm sure your anger towards the person who assaulted your brother is just being misdirected towards me, but I insist-" Ella's calm was deteriorating, John could sense it.

Harry obviously couldn't. "No. No, I'm bloody gonna kill the man who hurt my brother. I'm just angry at you." She informed Ella.

"I would like to draw attention to the fact that I am currently the sanest person in the room." John pointed out, but the women were beyond listening to him.

Ella glanced at the clock. "Our session is just about over."

"Oh, I bet it bloody is." Harry muttered.

"Perhaps you would like to come in for a private session late this week, Harriet? It seems as though you need it." Ella quipped leaning back in her chair.

Her eyebrows skyrocketed.

John nearly had to drag Harry out of the room.

Afterword they had taken a cab home, Harry soon stopped seething and realised she had royally pissed off her brother.

She tried to apologize, but John wouldn't hear it. He went to his room and read a book 'till he fell asleep. Sometime during the night Harry must have snuck in and locked his window. John sighed and stared at his tired reflection in the mirror feeling a pang of regret. His sister was just worried about him; being obnoxious and degrading was just her way of showing she cared.

John took a deep breath and walked out into the kitchen, knowing that despite the early time his sister would be awake. He and his father lived in a small flat together in London. It was on the top level of a three floor complex and had just enough room to fit the two of them, especially since Harry no longer lived there. His dad worked a desk job seven days a week, ten hours a day, and it was killing him. Odd hours that consisted of anything from early mornings to late nights were becoming too much for the older man. His wife had made half the income when she was alive but lung cancer had taken her at the early age of thirty-eight leaving her husband to pick up more hours to support his family.

Harry was in the kitchen as he had suspected. She was hunched over the coffee machine, still pajama clad in fluffy plaid pants and an overly large _The Rolling Stones_ t-shirt; her bushy, bed head abused orange hair was tied up in a high pony tail.

"Morning, John." She croaked, voice still raw from sleep, when she noticed his entrance.

"Mornin', Harry." He smiled lightly and sat down at the kitchen table.

She poured herself and John each a cup and sat across from him, gripping her mug with two hands. John grimaced as he took a small sip of the bitter liquid.

"Oh, please." Harry said after taking a gulp of hers. "I know you're a tea person, you posh thing, you. But coffee is the universal drink for early risers like us Watsons."

The way she said it was so affronted that John had to laugh a bit. He sobered quickly though. "So, Dad is already-"

"Yeah. He left a few minutes ago." They sat in silence until Harry said quiet and sincere, "Look John, I'm sorry about yesterday. I acted like a complete idiot."

John sighed and shook his head. "No, it's not your fault."

"Yeah it is."

"Yeah, actually it is." John acknowledged, smiling a bit. "Now Ella will be asking about my home life and questioning your influence on me, but I know why you got mad. It's not her fault I'm a mess, Harry."

"You're not a mess." Harry interjected fiercely. "You're just . . . sorta screwed up."

John rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks."

She smiled bitterly. "John, if there's one thing I've learned in my life it's that not everyone is a mess, but everyone is at least a little screwed up in their own way."

He laughed a little. "Harriet Watson, are you admitting to your own imperfection?"

Harry grinned wickedly. "Savor it, 'cause that's the last time you'll hear it for a while."

They sat in a comfortable silence until John finally inquired, "How is Clara?" A twinge of nervousness struck his gut. Harry hadn't mentioned Clara once for the duration of the visit and John was beginning to develop dreadful assumptions.

Harry visibly stiffened. Avoiding his eyes she said, "She's – er, good. Fine."

"Oh Jesus, she broke up with you." John said in shock, Harry remained uncharacteristically silent. "God, why?"

She sighed through her nose. When she didn't answer, John continued, "I mean you're a real git most of the time, but she knew that . . . ." He trailed off when Harry looked up at him with miserable eyes.

He clutched the bridge of his nose. "Oh God, you broke up with her."

"John."

"Why, on Earth would you do that? I thought you two were crazy about each other, you were together for a two whole years!" John muttered in disbelief. "What the hell made you decide that all that meant nothing?"

Harry glared at him. "Jesus Christ! I love her, alright?"

"Then why would you break things off?"

She looked down again. "I'm beyond a mess, John, you and I both know that. I didn't want to hurt her more anymore than I already have."

"Oh, that's bull." John stood up and began to pace. "That's the stupidest thing I have ever heard. You broke up with the so called love of your life because you didn't want to _hurt_ her? That sounds like something from a bad romance novel."

Harry looked up at him in fury. "Do you know what I used to do to her? I was so afraid of the nightmares that I would make her stay up with me all night so I wouldn't fall asleep. And then when she wasn't there and I had to deal with the nightmares on my own, I would drunk call her and you what? She would answer. _Every bloody time._ I hardly remember it but . . . Jesus, I know I scared her half to death."

John stared at her. She had tears in her eyes.

"You know how I, like, need a therapist more than you even though you're the one who actually got kidnapped? And everyone I know has a different bloody theory of what's wrong with me, don't look at me like that, I know you have one to. Well, Clara knows. She probably thinks I'm insane, but she knows why." She looked close to having a break down. "I couldn't take that. Sympathy, silent suffering, and sorrow: that's the kind of shit I made her go through. Well, no more." She got up, drained her cup and put in the sink.

John shook his head, but held his tongue. This argument could wait; he walked over to his sister and held out his arms.

The Watsons were not an outwardly affectionate family. Hugs and kisses were rare, especially between his sister and him. But this seemed as appropriate a time as any.

Harry was a head taller than her brother and twice as proud, but she willingly embraced him.

"I miss her, a lot." She whispered.

John said nothing and simply held her as her body shuddered with a single sob. Quickly afterwards, Harry straightened and was herself once more. "So, what are you doing today? Popular boy like you, you must be meeting a million of your closest friends this fine Saturday."

John laughed. "Yeah, I'm probably just going to catch up on school work. Starve the world of my irreplaceable presence. What about you?"

Harry shrugged. "I'll walk around. See the sights. Re-acquaint myself with London."

* * *

As always Sherlock found that London had yet again transformed while he was away.

London was always changing. People coming and going, buildings growing and being torn down, fashions shifting and varying, all simultaneously. In this way the city was akin to an ameba: changing form constantly but always the same creature.

The last time he'd visited had been a month ago to visit the girl Molly Hooper for necessities that Neverland couldn't supply him. In fact he would have to visit her after he'd collected John.

Walking the streets was not ideal but flying was out of the question for obvious reasons. The slow transportation did have its perks though; keeping boredom at bay by silently deducing the innumerable strangers proved easy. It also distracted him from the growing anxiety of seeing John again.

He arrived at the flat at 4:30 AM. It had occurred to him that the Watsons could have moved away but thought better of it (poor family, convenient location for school and work: moving was out of the question.)

_Top window to the far right_. He remembered and bit his lip nervously, feeling his stomach flip. _Get a grip_, he chided himself harshly, _you're_ _acting like a teenage boy_. Refusing to acknowledge the fact that physically he _was_ in fact a teenage boy.

The street was empty and devoid of any people, so he pushed himself off the ground before he could change his mind and flew up to John's window.

His heart pounded fiercely as he peered through the grimy window to no avail. It was filthy and all he could see was a rough shape of a bed and what he assumed to be John a top it. With trembling hands he made to open the window that had been cracked open for him all those years ago.

"Damn it," He swore finding that it was locked. He considered his options for a moment, trying to weigh out which was the most reasonable, before rapping his fist urgently on the glass. "Come on, John. I didn't come all the way to London to ensure you slept soundly."

He pounded his fist harder and squinted through the glass. John was twitching, jerking his body this way and that. _Nightmare?_ Sherlock thought curiously, his mind whirling into action. This would definitely require more research. He tried once more knocking on the window but to no avail.

"For God's sake, John." He sighed in annoyance and descended back to the ground. "Do I honestly have to do this the normal way?"

Sherlock decided that John would most likely be asleep for at least another two hours and tried to distract himself by taking a walk. He gave up subsequently ten minutes later and found himself jogging up to Watson's flat. Instead of feeling nervous like before, he only felt annoyance and mild anger at having to wait so long.

Shifting impatiently from foot to foot, Sherlock pressed to doorbell three times quickly and then clasped his hands to together. When no one responded he let out a groan of frustration and pressed the buzzer once more.

"Alright, alright! I'm coming." A female voice muffled by the door shouted. It soon opened to reveal a ginger young woman. "God." She said in exasperation. "What?" and then she looked up at him.

Her blue eyes widened and her mouth fell open. Sherlock glanced at her paling figure up and down before saying, "Ah, yes . . . hello. Is John Watson in?"

She didn't respond, she simply gaped. "Harry, who is it?" A male voice called.

"John." Sherlock muttered unconsciously to himself. His voice had deepened, rough from sleep but still recognizable in its tone. "John?" He shouted out louder, peering past the girl, Harry, hoping to catch a glance of his friend.

"Jesus Christ!" Harry seemed to have awakened from her trance. "No way! No _bloody way_!" She was whispered feverishly and retreated into her house. "Stay away from us." And then she slammed the door on his face.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "Well, that didn't go as expected."

* * *

John looked up in confusion as Harry slowly walked back into the kitchen. "Who were you talking to?" He asked curiously.

Harry frowned as though trying to remember. "I . . . just some guy." Her voice was breathless and trembling.

"I thought I heard him say my name." John said and then looked at his sister worriedly. "Are you alright? You look terrible."

"I don't . . . ." And then Harry collapsed to the floor.

John snapped into action. He helped his barely conscious sister into bed, took her temperature, chequed her pupil dilation, and began with his rapid fire questions.

"Who was at the door?"

"I didn't know him."

"Did he give you anything?"

"No. He just asked for you."

"Did he say why?"

"No."

She became increasingly stable and soon began fighting him to earn the right to getting out of bed, but John did not relent. He did not leave her side for the rest of the day with the exception of the occasional bathroom break. Whatever had happened, it had troubled his sister deeply beyond her understanding.

She couldn't speak of the stranger for the tremble in her voice.

...

* * *

_Notes for Chapter Two_ (aka the chapter which the world tried to prevent from occurring)

1. Instead of doing a ridiculously long A/N I've decided to do this slightly shorter (yeah right) notes section instead.

2. I'm sorry for my lack of updates, I could bore you with my explanations (world, I blame you) but what it all comes down to is basically school work + family problems + Christmas shopping + the discovery of The Wrong Mans on Hulu = no writing for Millie.

3. From Chapter One (my pride forces me to mention) the names Jean, Adrian, and Dennis were not randomly selected. They are the real names of (three of anyway) Arthur Conan Doyle's children. They are not, however, based on the real Doyles.

4. In case you were wondering we shall hear more about the aforementioned "slit wrists and used needles" later.

5. John woke up at 5:12 for a reason: 5 × 12 = 60, which was the year that J.M. Barrie was born (1860).

6. There is in fact a reason Harry is more damaged than John. Just wait, we'll get there eventually.

7. In the next chapter John and Sherlock will finally reunite. In the meanwhile: please review, it really makes my day. I guarantee even just a one liner will be much appreciated.


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